


Of Deadly Wounds and Words

by BlueAlmond



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueAlmond/pseuds/BlueAlmond
Summary: (This is based on a post I saw on Tumblr but it’s not exactly that.)Alexander is a writer, and he just likes accuracy.Aaron, on the other hand, is a serial killer. But he has all the answers Alexander needs.





	Of Deadly Wounds and Words

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick dark thing for my favorite holiday... Happy (very) late Halloween!

Alexander was a writer dedicated to accuracy. Unbelievable scenarios were simply something he couldn’t bring himself to write. It probably had to do with his background as a reporter, but even when it came to fiction, he couldn’t write inaccuracies. The problem was that when writing a police novel, he didn’t exactly _know_ what accurate was. Google wasn’t being very helpful, and neither were his friends. He had known only one doctor and since they hadn’t broken up on the best terms, he wasn’t going to ask him. His main problem was that he liked descriptions too much. Sometimes he didn’t even include them, but he needed to be able to picture in his head exactly how everything looked, probably because he liked movies too much, who knew. But whatever it was, he was that way, and he still had eighty percent of a novel to finish. He _needed_ to finish it. Freelancing wasn’t as fun—nor profitable—as he had thought it’d be when he quitted his job. But newspapers censured him _so much_ , and his coworkers were so shitty, he couldn’t take it anymore. Besides, he had _so many_ ideas. And he read. He read a lot, that’s how he knew that he was good. Because when he read his own stories, he enjoyed them, and he was a touch critic. A tough critic that didn’t like it when he couldn’t tell what the characters were doing or what the scene looked like.

On top of his bed, he lifted the laptop off his chest and put it away, sighing heavily. He brushed away the hair that kept falling onto his face and thought about getting a haircut. Then threw away that thought and tried the Google bar search again. Four words later, he erased it and opened an incognito tab. He didn’t need that weird shit in his history, especially after the search ended up being quite useless. After a moment’s hesitation, he tried his last resource: he went to _Tumblr._ He figured somebody there would eventually answer. He was convinced half the people in that damn site were serial killers anyway.

Somewhere, a three years older Alexander Hamilton is laughing his ass off with the irony.

It took a little time, but eventually, after many tries, somebody answered him, and it was completely useless. He unfollowed that blog immediately, for being an asshole, and then proceeded to consider unfollowing those that were ignoring him too. He didn’t though. He still had hope one of them would answer. Those people knew everything. How couldn’t they know the cleanest way to get someone to slowly bleed to death in their own apartment and yet make them incapable of getting help? He knew he was a little dramatic, but he’d read worse. He just knew pettiness a little too well.

At the end, no one answered that day, and he almost forgot about it—if taking the phone to the shower meant he had forgotten about it. For three days, he checked the damn site and each of the blogs he’d reached out to every ten minutes or so, and there was nothing. He tried to go forward with a different scene, but he was blocked. He needed to finish that. How was he going to elaborate on the other characters reactions if he still didn’t have the details of the death? He needed them. He needed to know that it was possible, and he needed to see what particular details he would include there that later would evolve into something a little more macabre, and to start planning what little phrase could later translate into a metaphorical kick into the readers’ guts. He couldn’t stop thinking about that, and no one on Tumblr was answering!

No one was, until someone did.

 ‘ _I’m sorry I didn’t see this sooner. Do you still need an answer?_ ’ said the precious bastard.

Alexander cheered out loud. He then proceeded to rapidly type ‘ _yES!_ ’ back. A second later, he gasped loudly with what he got.

Not only it was a detailed, well-thought answer, but it was also very integral. It considered everything: time, weather, feelings and sensations of both, the subject and the person responsible for it—even though they had considered a scenario as well where no one else was involved, which was a little tempting to write about. Alexander didn’t know how to thank them enough for it, and the blogger was so nice to tell him it was nothing and even wish him luck. He was very inspired after such a thoughtful answer, but he was also very curious, so the next thing he did was to inspect every corner of the stranger’s blog. The blog of ‘ _Cats, classics and murder_ ’, which was simply great, kept him busy for a long time. He then couldn’t help himself and sent a second question. A little one, one that wouldn’t take him much time. He just wanted to read their wonderful, precise and thorough descriptions one more time. Then for his third question, he just wanted to see if they were ever wrong. He was getting slightly jealous, but when they answered correctly again, in that concise way of them, Alexander wasn’t mad nor frustrated.

He was _oh so hooked_.

It was like they had all the answers, and they all sounded _right_ , so Alexander kept asking them stuff, and then he wasn’t asking about the murder scenes anymore, but all sorts of things, and then he was even asking for their opinion on the plot and characterization. Before he knew it, they talked every day. It took a while, but he learnt that they were a guy in his late twenties, like himself, that his name started with an ‘A’, like himself, and that he liked cats. But everybody liked cats, and since sixty percent of his posts consisted of cats, Alexander claimed that didn’t count as personal information and he was entitled to a different answer. Still, his murder guy was very reserved, as opposed to Alexander who had already told him pretty much everything there was to know about himself, minus his address and bank account. But with his perseverance and insistence, he managed to get a phone number. With WhatsApp, there came phone calls and pictures and he finally had a clue of who he was talking to. He still didn’t know what he did or where he lived, but he knew he was ridiculously handsome and had a beautiful voice and was just as eloquent when talking than he’d been when typing. In a matter of months, Alexander was convinced he was in love, and he’d never even held the guy’s hand. It took many tries, but after one phone call in which he distinctly heard a guy selling hotdogs he liked, he finally discovered his murder guy—who now he knew was called _Aaron_ —lived in New York City, like himself. Aaron didn’t seem as thrilled with the discovery as Alexander did, though, and their phone call ended shortly after that.

Still, that night…

‘ _We should meet!_ ’ texted Alexander, already lying in bed with his glasses on. Aaron was perhaps the only person he’d ever sent a selfie looking like that.

‘ _Are you sure? Aren’t you afraid I might be a serial killer?_ ’

Alexander snorted and sent a string of emojis of a face crying in laughter. ‘ _I wouldn’t care. I want to meet you!_ ’

For a moment, he was worried Aaron wouldn’t answer. He wasn’t online anymore, and though he sometimes disappeared for a couple of minutes and then came back with an apology and a story about his kitties (he had three), Alexander worried he had screwed up. He probably had sounded overexcited, but _he was_. His novel was almost finished and yet, he kept finding excuses to keep writing it just so he’d had another thing to ask Aaron, who by now was familiar with all the characters. He thought that maybe, if he gave Aaron the entire manuscript, and the guy approved it, he would be ready to publish it.

After thirteen minutes, when Alexander was ready to apologize and end his life, Aaron finally answered. Kind of. He didn’t exactly text.

He called, and Alexander almost threw his phone out the window. He caught himself right on time and answered a little out of breath, like an idiot.

“ _Are you sure you want to meet me?_ ”

“Yes. Yes. There’s nothing I want more.”

“Do you know _The Birds_ café?”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Of course you go to places like that. Don’t get me wrong, I love Hitchcock just like any other, but that place is… like, have you read the menu? It’s just a tiny bit too much.”

Aaron chuckled, and the sound was lovely. It always made Alexander weak in the knees. He couldn’t wait to hear it in person.

“But I know it. I’ll meet you there. Hell, I could live there if that meant I’d eventually see you.”

“ _That won’t be necessary. Let’s have lunch there tomorrow, okay?_ ”

“Yeah. Sure. Lunch sounds great. About two it’s fine for you?”

“ _Make that One thirty and that’ll be perfect._ ”

“One thirty, I got you.” Alexander would be there at noon. He swallowed. “See you tomorrow then.”

“ _See you tomorrow, Alexander._ ”

Alexander channeled his inner teenage girl and buried his face on a pillow while he giggled, delighted and excited and just so happy, irrationally so. There were still many things he didn’t know about Aaron, and they only had been talking on the phone for about two months, but there were five months of writing before that, and Alexander didn’t think anybody else had ever made him feel that way. None of his exes had understood how alluring words could be, but Aaron did. So far, everything he did, he did with words, and Alexander couldn’t get enough of them. However, after watching _My Fair Lady_ again for perhaps the hundredth time, he had felt way too identified with Eliza Doolittle to be comfortable with the way things were anymore. He loved words, he wasn’t _sick_ of them, but he wanted _more_. Spring had come and gone, and summer was driving him to exhaustion without moving a finger, but he was on fire, and Aaron had been the match that started it, and he wanted to consume him whole.

Meeting with him for the first time was perhaps disappointing in how similar it was to speak on the phone, but it was wonderful to be able to reach out and touch. Aaron was handsome, but Alexander had already known that; he was brilliant, and he had known that too; his voice… his voice was a little different, not much, but it was a little different. It was still the softest thing he’d ever heard though, and the only reason he couldn’t forgo conversation.

Falling into bed together was just like a different form of dialog, but they still understood each other well. They traded kisses and caresses and bites accordingly, as if dancing a practiced choreography to the sound of their moans and shallow breaths, which was definitely better than Alexander’s favorite song.

Having Aaron naked on his bed was perhaps the ultimate muse. He not only finished his manuscript that night, he also started another and got new ideas for a work he’d abandoned months before he started talking to him.

That night he decided he was never letting Aaron go.

֍

His book was ridiculously successful, and Alexander was sure it was all thanks to Aaron’s advice. But Aaron was humble and refused to take the credit. They still went out to celebrate, and then went back to Alexander’s place to keep celebrating, which was just perfect and particularly inspiring. He couldn’t tell how come every time he fell asleep after having Aaron’s mouth on him he woke up with the greatest ideas and the most terrible scenarios, but he wasn’t complaining. Honestly, if a day started with Aaron on his bed, then it simply couldn’t be a bad day. Even when he had to do things or go to places where he knew some shit would be unavoidable, he didn’t worry.

Well, he didn’t worry that much. He still got irritated when he had to face irritating people, but his patience was considerably larger. Sure, it was never much to begin with.

“You were a lousy reporter and are just as terrible as a novelist,” commented a guy, offhandedly while he walked by after an interview in a radio station.

What the reporter was doing there, Alexander didn’t know, and didn’t care. He simply glared at him and said: “Shut up, Jefferson.”

“I’m just, what was it that you used to say? Right, expressing my opinion…” the guy shrugged.

Alexander rolled his eyes but didn’t start a big fight like he would’ve done in the past, which was definitely Aaron’s influence on him. He hated the guy. He had been the editor’s pet back when Alexander was only an intern that hadn’t even graduated college, and each time Alexander tried to show the editor his stories, the guy would “remind him of his place” and make sure to point out every detail that could be considered a mistake, not exactly in an educational way but in a “you picked the wrong profession” kind of way. Alexander simply detested him. Still, that day he ignored him and made his way to the elevator with renovated strength and a million new ideas. He checked the internet for new recipes and found one that fitted both, the story he’d been writing and the thing he’d been craving to eat and wasn’t even that hard to make. He invited Aaron for dinner and started working.

The first time he saw Aaron cutting his spaghetti he was appalled. Now he simply stared at him fondly when he did.

“Let’s move in together,” proposed he, just as Aaron took the first bite after cutting for what felt like an hour. Every single noodle was about an inch long.

Aaron raised his face to him with surprise in his eyes and a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “What?”

Alexander shrugged one shoulder and grinned. “I just think I function better when I wake up next to you. Don’t you agree?”

Aaron’s smile didn’t disappear in the rest of the night, not even while they kissed, so Alexander took that as a yes.

Later, with their legs tangled together, they had a short discussion about who would move to the other’s apartment. Alexander had only been to Aaron’s apartment a couple of times, so he didn’t expect him to be so categorical about using his. Alexander, however, didn’t have a problem with it, as long as they were together. Sure, he liked his apartment, he had picked it for a reason and he had many fond memories of the place, but the location wasn’t as good as Aaron’s, it wasn’t as large, and he didn’t even own that many furniture. Most of his possessions were books, notebooks and clothes, and they weren’t that hard to move.

Sadly, the one piece of furniture he treasured, his favorite desk, one he was definitely keeping, didn’t fit through the elevator, so they had to carry it the thirteen floors up the stairs. By the time they were done, Alexander was exhausted, and he slept like the dead. He didn’t even notice Aaron leaving in the middle of the night, much less did he hear him coming in. All he did was unconsciously hug him when the man finally lied down next to him.

And he was right. The next morning, a million ideas flooded his mind. Living with Aaron was wonderful. He couldn’t find a single flaw to it—aside from the plant by the door to the dining room that always hit him on the face when he didn’t pay attention and the weird distribution of the kitchen cabinets, living with Aaron was perfect. He genuinely believed it was perfect for about six months. Then he started to notice he would sometimes disappear in the middle of the night. He told himself he probably just used the bathroom or wanted to smoke, or he secretly was one of those freaks that go out jogging at dawn. He knew he was fooling himself because if he really thought that, he would’ve asked him about it, and yet he never did. He had to admit he wasn’t one to avoid confrontation, and yet he didn’t dare to ask Aaron what he was doing in the middle of the night. He didn’t dare to ask, as if some primitive part of his brain was warning him about the danger of the answer. Later, as he would find out, he would realize his instincts weren’t wrong after all.

But maybe even his instincts were too curious, because when he found out, entirely by coincidence, it was because of something as mundane as being thirsty.

He woke up at four in the morning, and Aaron wasn’t there. At first, he imagined he simply had gone to the bathroom, but his side of the bed was cold. Yawning, he straightened and went to take a sip of the glass of water he always kept on his bedside table, but it was empty. He sighed and stood up, but before he reached the door of the bedroom, he heard the distinctive noise of a key being inserted in the front door.

“Aaron?” Alexander frowned when he found the guy standing by the kitchen sink, but after looking at him with more attention, he paled. “Is that… is that blood?”

He was wearing a long black coat Alexander hadn’t seen before, leather boots and gloves and even a hat. The coat was tainted all the way from the calves to his chest with something that looked suspiciously like drying blood.

Aaron sighed. “For someone so brilliant, you’re a little unobservant, Alexander.” He took off his black leather gloves and threw them in the sink. He grinned. “Yes. It’s blood. Now think your next question carefully. What do you want to know?”

Alexander swallowed. “This shouldn’t be hot.”

Aaron chuckled, visibly delighted. “Why not?” He took off his coat and threw it on top of the gloves.

Alexander shook his head. “I should be… I am, I am horrified and I… I…” he swallowed, eyeing his boyfriend up and down. “I have so many questions and… you’ll have to answer!”

Aaron tilted his head to one side and played with the buttons of his shirt, not quite unbuttoning it. “Where?”

“Where?”

“Where will you make those questions? I need to take a shower, you see, but you could join me if you want.”

The only reason Alexander took off his shirt right away was to avoid getting blood on it. That was the only reason. Aaron was merely an inch or two taller than him, but he still felt him tower over him, and when his arms wrapped around him, Alexander hadn’t yet decided what he wanted to do to him. When their lips met, it was a little easier, or maybe it was just harder to resist him, he didn’t know. But if he hurried to get rid of Aaron’s clothes was because he wanted to get rid of that incriminating blood, to feel under his hands nothing but that skin he knew so well instead of the tainted fabric.

At the end he didn’t make any more questions. He thought he didn’t want to know. That way it would be easier to kiss Aaron and to hope he never got caught.

Living with Aaron was not entirely perfect after all. He would leave late at night and then undress in the bathroom when he came back, and Alexander would purposefully ignore it all until he joined him in bed with cold hands and feet. And just as he had done earlier, he avoided confrontation. He avoided all conversation about what that blood could mean… until he didn’t. Alexander was never well-known for his excellent common sense after all.

“Have you ever murdered someone using a butcher’s knife?” he asked one night after struggling with one paragraph for over twenty minutes.

Aaron, who had been reading a book next to him, closed it carefully and took off his glasses. He then turned to stare at Alexander with a smirk. “Why do you want to know?”

Alexander sighed. “Remember I told you Ian worked as a delivery boy? Well, I’m working on his backstory and I think his father used to be a butcher, maybe an abusive one, and Ian killed him, probably defending his mother or something like that. I know, it’s a terrible cliché, but he’s really barely there and I’m not going to waste much time on it, but…”

“But you want to know exactly what killing someone with a butcher knife might be.”

Alexander swallowed. “I mean…”

“Well sadly, Alexander, I haven’t. Not murdered. But I have gotten ridden of more than one body chopping them with one of those. And I think I can picture an amateur doing it. It probably would be messy, and slower than necessary.”

Aaron talked about an _amateur_ , for someone who murdered someone for the first time. Alexander should’ve felt sick. He was a little turned on and thinking about all the details he could add to his books if he just asked Aaron. He already did it before, the only difference now was that he knew his sources. That should’ve changed it all, but… it didn’t. He wanted to hear it all about it, and Aaron seemed to notice it, because he did. He kept talking with those marvelous details of his in that deep, soft voice, and Alexander could do nothing but listen and commit it all to memory to write later, because he couldn’t for the life of him tear his eyes away.

It was weird, but it worked for them, and Alexander was selfish enough that he didn’t care what it meant for the rest of the world.

֍

Thomas Jefferson was a simple man, with simple pleasures. He liked cold weather, strawberries, and having breakfast in bed with his husband. He enjoyed telling a good story, reading one, and telling others why they were wrong. His job allowed him all that, and he was happy, really happy.

Until he wasn’t anymore.

His husband James was a surgeon and had to work well into the night every once in a while. They were used to that, and though Thomas would worry the rational amount, he usually would fall asleep way before James got home, and then he would leave before he made it back. Still, whenever that happened, he called him, just to say good morning and to hear his voice. It was their routine.

So when James didn’t answer the phone at eight thirty in the morning after a heart operation that he had assured him even with complications shouldn’t extend beyond six, Thomas worried sick. He insisted, and then he insisted some more, and when nothing happened, he called the hospital. His dog stirred and stayed silent next to him, barely noticing Thomas’s shaky caresses. After they told him Doctor Madison had left normally and well around four thirty in the morning, half an hour after the surgery ended successfully, his legs couldn’t hold him anymore and he had to sit. He then proceeded to call the police. He knew James’s route by heart, and he knew the man was the most careful driver there was. He also knew he was naïve and well-intentioned, which at such hour in the middle of Manhattan was not a good combination.

When the police told him they had found him, wearing dark expressions, he simply got confirmation of his worst fears. He still crumbled, though. But when they told him he had been _murdered_ , his grief was replaced by ire. By the way his dog’s tail bristled and his low growl, he shared the sentiment.

Thomas was going to find whoever had done it, and he was going to make sure they paid for it.

Seven weeks went by, and the police was no closer to find the person responsible as they’d been that very same day. Whoever had done it was good, but Thomas was convinced a more competent person would’ve found them by now. And he considered himself a more competent person.

It took him a while, but he eventually put it all together. He would’ve liked saying that he did it all alone, but he never would’ve figured it out if he hadn’t already known the guy. He still couldn’t believe it when he realized it.

He had only seen Hamilton’s boyfriend a couple of times, but something about him irked him since the beginning. And still, another two homicides had to happen for him to connect the dots. They weren’t even that similar, and cops didn’t think the perp was the same, but Thomas knew better. Thomas could see what _was_ the same—the time of death, day of the week, weather and circumstances. Just a guy alone at night, and Hamilton’s boyfriend had found his victim as if he’d been just waiting in the dark for someone to pass by. He was almost grateful Hamilton had mentioned during an interview—just like after James died—that he had been writing all night because he had been all alone. Thomas had later asked why that was, and Hamilton had vaguely said something about his boyfriend working late once every month or so. He didn’t elaborate on his boyfriend’s profession, and Thomas _knew_ it. He just did.

He had found the bastard.

Breaking into his apartment was easier than what he expected, but then again, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that as an investigative reporter, he had some practice. He considered calling Hamilton first, but he never had seen the guy more committed to someone, and he feared he wouldn’t believe him. He just needed to find the murder weapon, or at least the shoes. He probably got rid of the clothes he wore, but he wouldn’t get rid of the shoes. Probably not of the clothes either. If it was a hobby, he would keep them. Like a uniform.

For once, he did not celebrate being right. He simply took pictures of everything when he found the false back of the closet and what was hidden inside. He wanted to throw up. That, and to punch someone, but he didn’t do either. He simply took pictures. He considered going to the kitchen and getting everything inside a Ziploc bag, but he would leave that for the police. He just needed to get out of there. With what he had, he knew someone would listen to him. He knew it.

“Jefferson? What the hell are you doing here?”

He took a deep breath, because yelling at Hamilton wouldn’t do any good. The guy was, in a way, just another victim of that monster. “You should come with me, Hamilton.”

“What?”

“The guy you’re with, he’s dangerous!” He licked his lips. “Please, listen to me. I know we’re not friends, but I esteem you. We’ve known each other for what, ten years?”

“What?” repeated the guy, like an idiot. He looked pale and confused.

Thomas had never seen him that way. He felt sorry for him. Still he went and said: “He’s a serial killer! I came here to collect the last clue I needed. I’ll go to the police now. Come with me.”

“What?”

Thomas sighed, getting frustrated. Hamilton was like a broken record. “Hamilton, I know how this must sound to you, but I’m not playing. He’s the bastard that killed Jimmy.”

“Oh, shit.”

Thomas rubbed his eyes and nodded. “Come on. You can stay in my apartment if you want.”

Hamilton nodded. “I’ll just, yeah, let me, let me get some stuff.”

Thomas nodded. He had never liked Hamilton, but he couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind. He released a breath of relieve and closed his eyes as he waited for the writer. He lived with the monster, and if he wasn’t hurrying, then he probably wouldn’t be home soon. He felt like he could breathe again, like he hadn’t ever since the other side of his bed was empty.

He never stopped to think of all the knives the serial killer could keep in the bedroom.

֍

Aaron had never thought he would share his apartment with someone one day. His apartment was his sanctuary, a place where he never had to hide or give excuses. Bringing Alexander there was somewhat of a challenge at first but stepping out in the middle of the night had its fun. It added to the secrecy of it all. But he knew it was only a matter of time until he grew tired of it. Even people like him needed a place to be open, from time to time.

He never even considered being open to Alexander, but maybe he should have known things would go the way they did.

Thinking about Alexander finding out still turned him on. He hadn’t been expecting the reaction he had, but he wasn’t complaining, and it was great to stop lying. It was even greater to answer Alexander’s questions now, and fun. He no longer had to carefully avoid the details that could give away his sources, and though he never thought he would like an audience, well, he did. Alexander was very shy in his questions at first. Mostly about methods and scenery, never about the people. Not at first. But still, Aaron tried to go there, to go into details such as:

_“Please don’t kill me,” begged the man. “My, my name is James, and I have a dog!”_

_“I prefer cats,” replied Aaron with a shrug. People said the most ridiculous things when they stared at the face of death._

With how pale Alexander had turned that first time he said anything about an actual victim, Aaron had feared he had finally reached the line, but Alexander surprised him once again. His little writer not only didn’t try to run away; he started asking how he thought a certain character would act under certain circumstances. Aaron could hardly believe it, but just like with everything else, he simply accepted it and embraced it. He even got used to spontaneous texts and phone calls at odd times when he normally couldn’t stand being interrupted. He used to turn off his phone when he was working, and now he checked each time it rattled against his desk. Whenever his screen showed Alexander’s name, he answered. It was often something very silly though, usually he was asking for advice or to discuss dinner. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Alexander nervous or worried. So when he did, Aaron didn’t know what to make of it.

“Alexander?”

“ _Hey, you need to come home. Now._ ”

“What? Are you okay?”

“ _No. I mean, yeah. But you need to come. Hurry._ ”

“That’s okay, I’ll be there soon, alright? Breathe.” The advice was as much for Alexander as it was for himself. Alexander sounded terrible. Aaron wasn’t used to get worried about other people, but the idea of Alexander in any sort of trouble simply turned his insides upside down and accelerated his heartrate. The idea that someone had caused Alexander’s distress _irritated him_ and the possibility that it was all because of himself squeezed his heart with guilt and concern. He wasn’t used to those feelings. He didn’t like them. He pushed away that thought, because he liked Alexander.

“I’m home. What—”

“It’s in the bathroom,” said the writer. He looked pale and his hair was messy as if he had been running his fingers through it, but he didn’t seem to be hurt. He wasn’t wearing a sweatshirt though, which was weird.

Aaron blinked. “What?”

Alexander sighed, grabbed his hand, and lead him to the bathroom. “I didn’t know what to do, okay? I panicked. Please tell me you know how to fix it.”

Aaron stared at the corpse in the bathtub in shock. “You… you didn’t know what to do, so you…”

“You murdered his husband, and he figured it out. He’s a friend from work. He somewhat entered the place, collected something he called the last clue, and then told me all about it and how I could stay in his apartment for a few days.”

“And you killed him.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!”

It had been very stupid and fixing it would be a pain in the ass, but right then all Aaron wanted to do was to shower Alexander with affection, so he did just that. In a couple of minutes, he would need to figure out a way to get rid of the man’s phone, an alibi for his exit not appearing in the security cameras and a way to dispose of the body, but then, then he would ravish his boyfriend to thank him for all the sweetness he brought to his life.

He hadn’t been sure about meeting him at first, but he couldn’t regret it now, not after all the things they’d done together. At first, he had thought it would all go pretty fast. In his initial plan, he intended to kill Alexander months ago, as soon as he started to suspect.

He still thought he would eventually do it. Alexander knew too much, and Aaron cared about him too much. It was troublesome. Except the red in his cheeks suited him so well, it was almost a pity to imagine them numb and colorless. He thought some purple on his lips might look just right, but there were easy solutions for that which didn’t include stopping his heart or lungs. The night Alexander discovered him might have been a decisive night, though he didn’t like to think of anything as if it was written on stone. Especially when it came to Alexander, who was a little obsessive. Still, that night, devouring Alexander’s mouth wearing the same clothes he’d wore when he gutted another man, was the night he decided he would keep the writer around a little longer. He was good at waiting, after all. And in the meantime, he would make sure no one took him away from him before he had the pleasure of kissing away his last breath.

“Hey, uh…” Alexander licked his lips.

Aaron liked when he did that after they kissed. “Yes?”

“So James died, and now Thomas died too, and they had a dog…”

“I don’t like dogs,” said Aaron all too quickly.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “I know. And the dog probably won’t like us either.” He pointedly looked to the side, where two of their three cats were playing. "I’m just saying maybe we could make up that I was supposed to meet with Thomas tonight or something, so someone will notice he’s gone soon and the dog doesn’t like, die alone in their apartment.”

Aaron sighed. “Okay. Sure, let’s do that.”

It was also useful that his little writer, though impetuous, was a very intelligent and ingenious man. Aaron never stood a chance to resist that brain and those deadly words of his. He kissed him again, just because he could, and because the way Alexander would hang to his neck and sigh into his mouth was almost as exciting as witnessing a soul leaving a person’s body.

Oh, he liked his little writer, and his cats liked him too, and as long as they all did, he would keep him around.


End file.
